


Clear Skies are Falling

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love, e/r gift exchange, grantaire boxes, grantaire smokes hash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are injured.”</p>
<p>Grantaire laughs, a dry, rattling sound, and stands, passing the pipe to Joly. “So Joly has said already,” he elaborates, “and I told him that no mortal is safe from harm. Every man loses a fight, and I wasn’t looking to win. I know when I am beaten. If it is the will of the gods to have me struck down, then who am I to stand against them?” He bows mockingly, hiding a wince as he does so. He is no newcomer to the aches and pains that come with boxing, but it has been a long while since he went into a fight with the intention to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear Skies are Falling

**Author's Note:**

> For crying-alone-with-vergil on tumblr, for the e/R gift exchange.

The sky is too blue for a day like today. Today ought to be cloudy, the musky scent of filthy rain carried on a bitter breeze as the crowds huddle in their coats or wrap tattered rags around their thin bodies. Today ought to be filled with sleet or cold rain and leaking roofs and drunken men lingering brokenly in the alleys. Today ought not to be filled with laughter and sunlight and the first flowers of summer, with children playing and women chattering; Grantaire cannot help but feel bitter that the world does not feel as he does. He is envious, he admits, of their joy.

He avoids the streets, caring too much and unable to stop doing so. He wishes he didn’t care – it would be so much easier if he didn’t. He tries not to, tries with everything he’s got. Drowns it all in opium and absinthe and fists and fights and hopes that if he can tell himself that he doesn’t care enough times, then he won’t. So he slinks between the dank houses like a wounded animal, avoiding the sun and the people in favor of making his way to the heart of the slums.

It is easy to find a fight here. There is no shortage of willing participants, and a number of fights are already going on within the circles of men. Grantaire makes his presence known with a jaunty wave and a smirk, pausing only to wrap his fists in old bandages before walking to the center of the ring. The men come to circle around him, and an opponent makes himself known, a bare-chested man with few teeth and even less hair, arms too covered in scars to make out the prison tattoos. Grantaire laughs, loud and wild and tinged with madness, and easily falls into a crouch.

He barely has time to raise his fists before the fight starts. It is a dance of blows and kicks, dodging and attacking like feral animals, a snarl on his lips and a growl in his throat. He draws blood and bleeds the same, leaves bruises and feels his own skin color under the hits he takes. This is what he needed, to lose himself in this. It is a better distraction than the drink or drugs ever could be, for here, there is only the fight. There is no Enjolras in the corner of his eye, there is no talk of a better tomorrow. There is adrenaline pumping and blood rushing and men shouting and he barely has time to think before he moves, much less contemplate and wallow in his own wretched self-pity.

At some point, he realizes that this is not a fight he will win. He is an adept boxer, too be sure, as quick on his feet as he is with his tongue, and yet, the man he faces is much larger than him, and much stronger, too. There is blood dripping into his eye from a cut on his brow, at least one rib is cracked, and he walks with a limp. He has endured worse, fought through worse, but the man opposite him is hardly slowed.

And he’s moving again, ducking and weaving and jabbing when he can, tuning out the cacophony of sounds around him and focusing instead on the way their bodies move. He sees the last blow when it comes, sees it and realizes that he could not dodge even if he tried to. Resigning himself to the loss, he does not flinch when his head snaps back with the impact and embraces the darkness as it envelops him.

When he next opens his eyes, he has at least been moved off to the side. Awareness returns slowly, and he catalogues a list of aches and pains before trying to move, and then gingerly pulls himself to his feet. With bloody knuckles and swollen fingers, he unwraps his hands and pulls on his waistcoat, tying his cravat loosely before turning to leave.

It is then that he notices Bahorel sitting on top of a stack of crates beside him, the man looking at him with an arched eyebrow. “The larger half of your face is purple,” he remarks dryly. “It matches your cravat.”

Grantaire snorts, and begins to walk away. “What are you doing here?”

Bahorel looks at him quizzically, then jumps down to join him. “Usually the same thing as you, but tonight, trying to find you. I’m glad I did – they would have picked your pockets if they could have.”

“I don’t have anything they’d want,” Grantaire scoffs, but waits for Bahorel to catch up before leaving. The sun is setting and he’s itching for a drink, but more than anything, he wants to avoid the Musain. He’d avoid Bahorel too, if he could, but it appears he owes the man, and if he is honest with himself, he enjoys the company. But…although the sun is setting now, no longer mocking him, he does not wish to put himself in front of the fire that burns in Enjolras, trading one sun for another.

They make their way through the streets like shadows, mingling in the night crowd but passing without notice. When they arrive at the Musain, yellowed light is seeping from the windows and broken noise coming from inside. Bahorel does not hesitate as he enters, but Grantaire lingers at the door way. He could enter, should enter, for he is already here. The temptations of drink and smoke and friends and warmth is strong, but he can’t shake the stones in his gut. They weigh him down, creep up his throat, throb in time with the bruises and the breaks.

Noticing his absence, Bahorel saunters back outside and rests a heavy hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. No words are exchanged between them, but Bahorel grips him tightly and nods his head in the direction of the door. Grantaire bows his head in response and offers a slight smile, and they step inside the Musain together.

In the center of the Café Musain, amidst the shadows and the smoke, stands Enjolras. He is radiant, lit by candles and surrounded by his peers. They lean over tables and point at maps, yell about Robespierre and argue over Rousseau, discuss the rights of man and the bitter shortness of life. Enjolras will make his speeches, and they will all fall silent to listen. Grantaire will sit in the back and speak in prose, he will scorn and scoff but do so in language fit to woo even the finest of women.

It is no woman he woos.

He makes no pretense of starting with wine, but instead begs a bottle of absinthe and sits to nurse it. Enjolras’ eyes land on him a second, as he is sitting on the edges of the group at a lone table surrounded by guns and pamphlets. Raising the bottle to his lips in a mockery of a salute, he takes a long draught, wipes his lips on the back of his hand, and stands to find Joly. He cannot get those eyes out of his mind. Piercing and bright, they are not cold, but intense with the fire of revolution. Enjolras does not burn cold; he burns so very hot.

There is a candle on Joly’s table, and it casts light on his bruises. Grantaire falls into an empty chair next to him and watches Joly laugh – it seems Joly is always laughing, even as he checks his tongue for redness or inspects a freckle on his arm. He does not know what Joly laughs at – a joke of Bossuet’s, a pun of Bahorel’s, the antics of small Gavroche. When the laughter falls away, Joly catches sight of Grantaire’s face.

“Grantaire!” he exclaims, reaching out to touch his chin gently, tilting it for a better view. He opens his mouth again, looking as if he will begin to worry, and Grantaire raises a finger to his lips.

“Hush, my friend. I am well.”

“But what happened?”

“Not even Odysseus can win all fights, and Achilles fell too soon. The stars will fall and the sun will sleep and when they do so, a thousand men will have fought five hundred wars, and half of them will lie low.”

Joly furrows his brow, but says no more on the matter.

From across the room, Combeferre looks out over the men. It is with a surge of fondness that he takes in his friends, all of them together, laughing and arguing, the room loud with discourse and thick with smoke. It is good to see them like this, enjoying themselves and being young. As much as he yearns for the freedom and liberty the revolution will bring, it hurts him to see them so wrapped up in it that they do not take care of themselves.

His gaze lingers on each of their faces, all of the men and few women there with him, taking note of them and carefully storing the information away. He responds when Enjolras asks a question of him, agrees or disagrees with Courfeyrac, but he is quiet. In the middle of the bustle of youth, he is calm. Not distant, but observing so that he may understand, and through understanding, bring about a better future.

And then, Grantaire. The man sits with Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel close by and laughing. But he does not participate in their laughter, and the smile on his face is strained at the edges. He is not tense, but slouched and loose, as if hiding in his chair. His eyes follow Enjolras as he moves between tables, gripping shoulders and trading words with the people near him, never leaving the golden-haired man. He is bruised, even Combeferre can see that from his distance. There is dried blood crusted around one eye and a colorful dark bruise blooming around his temple. His clothes are disheveled, although this is nothing unusual. Combeferre is aware of Grantaire’s habits – boxing, dancing, singlestick – this is not the first time he has appeared covered in bruises. And yet…

“You ought to go to him.” The suggestion is made quietly, one hand loosely catching Enjolras’ as he passes.

“Who?”

“Grantaire. He has been watching you.”

Enjolras glances at the man, who has abandoned his drink and is breathing in smoke, sharing it with Joly every other breath. Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and nods, and grips Combeferre’s hand in return.

“If you think it best.”

Grantaire looks up as Enjolras approaches, surprise evident on his face. “Enjolras,” he rolls the name on his tongue as he exhales, blowing smoke. Enjolras catalogues his battered face and blinks once in recognition.

“You are injured.”

Grantaire laughs, a dry, rattling sound, and stands, passing the pipe to Joly. “So Joly has said already,” he elaborates, “and I told him that no mortal is safe from harm. Every man loses a fight, and I wasn’t looking to win. I know when I am beaten. If it is the will of the gods to have me struck down, then who am I to stand against them?” He bows mockingly, hiding a wince as he does so. He is no newcomer to the aches and pains that come with boxing, but it has been a long while since he went into a fight with the intention to lose.

Enjolras lets him finish his speech before gently pushing Grantaire back into his chair. “You ought to rest. I imagine you do this for leisure – I have seen Bahorel while away his evenings in such fashion. But you will not be helpful injured.”

“I am not helpful anyways.” Grantaire stiffens as he says it, tense now, and hunched over the table. He tries to meet Enjolras’ eyes, but finds he cannot do it; it is almost as if he is afraid of being burned.

Joly and Bossuet look away at that, color rising to Joly’s cheeks. He looks as if he wants to interject, but he is aware that this is an exchange meant to be between Enjolras and Grantaire only. Bahorel stares at the smoke rising from Joly’s pipe, eyes following the spirals of smoke rather than the arguing men before him.

Enjolras sighs heavily and frowns. “You can be.”

“You gave me a chance – I failed.”

“You did.”

Grantaire nods sharply and goes boneless again, staring at Enjolras still, yet still not making eye contact. Enjolras reaches out, as if to brush Grantaire’s shoulder, but then pulls back his hand, and, as if unsure what to do with it, rubs the back of his neck instead. The silence stretches between them, each stewing in their own thoughts.

Enjolras, wanting to help. Wanting to prove to Grantaire that he could be so much more if only he wanted to be, if only he took the energy he used to fight and to speak and used it to contribute to the cause…if only, if only.

Grantaire, wanting to prove himself. Wanting not to care, but finding that he cared too much. Finding ways not to care, because if he doesn’t care, then it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t pain him unless he lets it. Wanting and wishing and dreaming for a person he can never have and a person he can never be.

And when Grantaire hears a clap of thunder in the distance moments later, and when he hears the first drops of rain come and splash against the cobblestones, he can only think it appropriate. After all, clouds are perfect for a day like today.


End file.
